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Tuesday, November 29, 2011

It's time someone blew the cover off the greatest conspiracy of all time: Parenthood.

I'm not sure when all the parents in the world got together and decided to become a gang of lying bastards. Misery really does enjoy company, doesn't it? That is the only explanation for why people I know and trust would lie blatantly to my face.

Despite my sky-high levels of skepticism regarding parenthood and platitudes, I blindly believed the following statements. Because they are the only explanation for why people actually CHOOSE to have children. Now that I've discovered everyone's a lying scoundrel, I can't make heads or tails out of deliberate procreation.

It's different when it's your own child

No...it really isn't. A scream is a scream is a scream. Five straight hours of screaming is not music when produced by your own child.

We're on month 5 and I'm pretty sure the one I got is broken. Or else she's really bad at being 5 months old. Maybe I need to let her go? But that's awkward around the holidays.

The good moments make you forget all about the bad ones

The good moments are why the child survives past 9 months old. You don't forget the bad moments. When The Bean turns 16 and starts sassing me, I plan on waking her up every 2 hours for 5 months straight so we can have some milk. Or maybe I'll just scratch at her face for a few hours because it makes me feel better.

It's a phase

But OH! how you forgot to mention that it's a phase followed by another phase, then another, and another.

This post was brought to you by Sleep Training Day 1. A wildly unsuccessful program which makes all parents question why they decided to throw their lives into complete upheaval by having children just when they were getting the hang of mature adulthood.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Mondays are a particularly bad day in the D-Zo household. A Monday after a holiday erases all residual memories of turkey-induced joy and makes you wonder why we need a day to celebrate anything at all; particularly if the celebration is going to interrupt The Schedule.

It's time for the useful tip portion of today's story: Infants do not remember CRAP if it doesn't happen every flipping day.

For the past three months, my Mondays look something like this:

This is every Monday. For the past 3 M.O.N.T.H.S.

Because on Monday morning, The Bean is fairly certain I've let an infant-eating, psycho lunatic into the house to tend to her while I go watch Wiggles videos all day long.

She has zero recollection of the events she participated in a mere 2 days earlier:

But today. Today, my friends, was a special Monday. A Perfect Storm of a Monday.

Fact 1: The D-Zo clan is all getting over a cold because God hates us and after 5 years of not being sick has bitch slapped us with 2 sicknesses in one month. This, naturally, means The Bean has been even more of a parasite than usual...I didn't know it was possible either.

Fact 2: It was a rainy, cold day in Atlanta today. This is important because one of the nanny's go-to Bean meltdown diffusing techniques is a walk outside.

Fact 3: The Bean opted to not take her morning nap this morning because, hey, it's Monday. A time for daring and thinking outside the box.

Fact 4: And, of course, the piece de resistance - we haven't seen the nanny in SIX WHOLE ENTIRE OH.MY.GOD.DID.SHE.EVER.EXIST.WE.JUST.DON'T.KNOW. DAYS.

Normally, I lock myself in the office and watch an episode of Top Chef with the volume cranked become so engrossed in my work that I don't even notice the screaming. See *I* know that if I run out there every time The Bean screams she will eventually learn this behavior and we will never break her of the habit.

*I* know this.

Guess who else was working from home today?

You're never going to guess.

As we all know, the whole D-Zo clan caught this cold. Men. Sickness. Need I say more?

9 AM rolls around and I hand The Bean off to the nanny and within 20 minutes (far longer than I thought, to be fair) The Bean has hit her stride and is in perfect voice.

Her father cannot cope. Because he is a sucker.

He runs to rescue his baby. But his idea of rescuing is talking to The Bean while the nanny holds her.

2nd Helpful Tip of the Day (because it's the holiday season): The most efficient way to elevate an infant meltdown to window-shattering, eardrum-rupturing, tear your own face off levels is to stick her with a "stranger," walk away and then come back and taunt her by not picking her up.

The Bean turned magenta.

It was time for Mama Intervention.

I pick up the child who is now violently purple, soaking wet from her own tears and covered in scratches from clawing her own face off out of anger.

0.000000000000005 seconds later, she looks like this:

Manipulative little bugger.

I can hardly wait for the two-week Christmas vacation extravaganza we have planned.

Monday, November 21, 2011

The Bean and I have been in an epic battle of wills. I'm sort of insistent she sleep. At some point. Ever. She's pretty sure sleep is for suckers. So during the time I used to set aside for blogging, we intellectually debate the impact of a good night's sleep on one's ability to make it through the daytime hours without melting down because the air is touching her.

We will begin sleep training next week. So you can start sharpening your daggers now since I fully intend to Ferberize The Bean. Don't worry though, I skimmed half of an article about the Cry It Out method on BabyCenter, so that pretty much makes me an expert. The main lesson I've gathered is that you can make adjustments to the technique so it works for you and your family.

Which clearly means I can let The Bean cry it out while I don a pair of noise-cancelling headphones and enjoy a martini.

New posts soon as I plan on pawning The Bean off on her grandparents during the holidays and sleeping...then posting.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Look, I'm not a touchy-feely person. In fact, I'm the awkward person you meet who never goes in for the hug. I have to know someone an average of 25 years to feel comfortable hugging them. You could be coming at me with wide open arms and I will place my hand shaker firmly in position. Because hugging is confining and what are you doing behind my back anyway Marcus Brutus?

Cuddling? There is a reason the bed is this big. Get on your side unless you want to be shanked.

During The Bean's Vomitpalooza last week we had to use a bottle so I could regulate how much milk she was getting at each feeding. More than 1.5 ounces and the boob juice would gush forth...from her. So we pumped, we measured, we fed, we didn't throw up.

What I'm about to say will oust me from the Hippie Mom Club for life.

I didn't miss breastfeeding for one second. Not a one.

The Bean has inherited my aloofness and her father's desire to not.miss.anything.ever.or.I.might.die. So breastfeeding for us is not this dreamy bonding time where we are surrounded by flying fairies, singing squirrels and dancing cupcakes. There are no snuggles, coy gurgles or shared secrets.

It's a business transaction. Boob. Milk. Make it happen.

In fact, I find it downright intrusive, especially since The Bean has a new found fondness for swinging from my nose hairs, or eyelids, or whatever else she can grasp with her shockingly strong grip.

This past week was liberating.

I'm sure mothers around the world are gasping, but it's the truth. And if I feel this way, there is bound to be one other mother out there ready to pull her hair out strand by strand because she is tethered to whipping her boobs out every two hours for someone who doesn't even have the courtesy to check my schedule for important events like conference calls, eating chocolate or contemplating if potato chips would indeed make the best hot dog topping.

It's empowering being able to whip your boobs out on your schedule.

Now unbunch your panties. She still gets breast milk only (I haven't let go of all my hippie tendencies) and we still feed straight from the hose in the morning and evenings, but we are using the bottle more and more.

Mrs. D-Zo: No...I would've said that if I meant that. She's lethargic. Sleeping. A lot.

Triage Nurse: That's not what lethargic means. It means not active physically or mentally, but awake.

Mrs. D-Zo: (Under breath) Hate. You.

Triage Nurse: So...you brought me a happy baby that sleeps?

Since I hate to act like a typical first-time mom, having it thrown in my face so bluntly and accurately was a big blow to my ego. To be fair, I called the pediatrician before hauling The Bean to the emergency room and they were all "Bring her in. STAT!"

But in the interest of full disclosure, we called from the emergency room parking lot.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

You see, The Bean is 4 months old now. And back in my blissfully naive "I'm so going to rock this being a parent thing" pregnancy days, she was to be sleeping in her own room by now. And by now I mean something like 2 months ago.

But then I realized, I liked sleep. And I liked my child a whole lot more when she got sleep.

So instead of trying to master the sleep training thing, we sleep at night. And I have to admit that we seem to be moving further and further away from independent sleeping and closer into the co-sleeping camp.

The Bean is still waking up at around 3 AM for a night feeding and I've gotten lazy. I used to get up, feed her, rock her back to sleep and put her in the Pack-n-Play (which has done very little packing and instead has set up permanent residence in our bedroom).

That's what I used to do.

Now I lift her out of the Pack-n-Play, plop her on the bed next to me whip out a boob and everyone falls asleep happily in bed.

Happily until vomit explosions happen.

I did well for a first-time mom. I waited a whole five hours before calling the doctor demanding a new, non-puking baby. Or at least a baby that would puke on the nanny and not me (seriously, the nanny didn't get hit once while I was in Tropical Storm Vomit).

Apparently, there are no refunds on these things, but there is Pedialyte.

I'm getting Christmas presents for the makers of Pedialyte. And I don't care how terrible it might be for my child (because I'm sure someone out there is ready to strip me of my hippie mom card since Pedialyte is not local, organic OR sustainable). It could be made out of kitten buttholes and dirty toenails and I would still give it to my daughter because after she drank it -- there was a noticeable absence of puking all over me.

And that's totally sustainable in my book.

We're on the mend. We're not 100% yet as sometimes I get overzealous and give The Bean just a little too much boob juice (one ounce at a serving is a cruel joke to play on a starving infant and she is not afraid to let you know how pissy it makes her) and we end up covered in the less-than-awesome sauce.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The last time I took a lunch break was roughly three and a half years ago. Overdeveloped work ethic? Martyr complex? Does it matter?

Yesterday I decided I was going to take a lunch break. I never do nice things for myself (because taking a lunch break is a real splurge) so I wasn't going to go too crazy, just pick up a sandwich from a new shop in town and bring it home to eat. I was desperate for a good sandwich. That is how pathetic my life is.

So at 11:30, I leave the confines of my home office and venture out. In public.

I enter the sandwich shop nervous because new things are intimidating for me. What if I don't know how to order a sandwich the proper way and everyone points and laughs? But I'm excited. I've been jonesing for a sandwich since before pregnancy.

I walk up to the counter.

"Yeah, we're not doing lunch today."

No good reason. This is the only day ever.

Of course it is.

Now I'm in a panic because I didn't account for needing a back up lunch plan. I buckle under the pressure and suffer from extreme unimagination (I think I just made that word up) and head to the local, crappy noodle shop. It's three feet from the sandwich shop, so naturally it's the only thing I can come up with on short notice.

Since it's now only 11:35, there is me and one other woman in the joint placing a to-go order.

Yep. They gave my order to other woman and I have to wait for them to make my order. Again.

This is why I don't leave the house. Lunch is a production.

For some odd reason, the noodle shop gives me her order and my re-made order so now I have all the food ever. I decide to take this opportunity to practice being a glass half-full girl and am pleased I now also have dinner for tonight.

After relaying the story of the Great Lunch Outing of 2011 to the nanny, my girlfriend, Michael and a neighbor I ran into on the street, I decide to laugh the whole thing off because it's just lunch for God's sake.

Except when you're me.

At 4:30 I eat one of the items I ordered -- tofu noodle crappiness. By 6:30, I realize something is drastically wrong with me.

That's right kids. Food poisoning.

Let's pause here for a moment to introduce two other relevant facts to this story:

Michael is working late on this particular evening. Like 10 PM late. So I'm on my own.

Ginger, the turd connoisseur, is having an extreme flare-up of arthritis and can barely walk.

Back to the story.

The Bean, thankfully, did not get the memo about Daylight Savings and I am able to put her down at 6:30. She's usually good to sleep until a dream feed at 11. So at least I can wallow in my food poisoning misery without also carrying a child around.

The puking commenced at about 7.

At which time, The Bean woke up and would lose her eyeballs every time I left the room.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Depending on how you look at it, I hit an all-time high or an all-time low in my parenting the other night. I'm going with all-time high owing to the ingenuity and on-the-spot decision-making I exhibited. Since this is my blog and my story, my opinion is the one that counts.

All you mothers should totally be taking this stance too...blog or no blog. Last time I checked the thesaurus I could not find where 'parenthood' was a synonym for 'everyone should judge me for the choices I make when raising MY child because someone who spends less than 24 HOURS A DAY with my child is probably way more informed than I am and should voice their opinion even if I didn't ask for it."

Wow. Where was I?

All-time high.

I go shopping for myself roughly once every six and a half years. Not because I don't have the time or the money (though there's not much of either), but because I hate it. There's the crowds of people who make you wonder how they managed to get out of their house alive, the sorting through 1,343,587 items of clothes to find the one piece that makes you look less fat than all the others and the 'I most definitely would rather be sleeping' factor.

So when I needed to go buy a new pair of shoes for an upcoming event, I was less than enthusiastic.

The shopping isn't the focus of this story, but I will have you know my superpower is going to the discount shoe store and finding the three pairs of shoes NOT on any sort of sale and with no discount from their designer counterpart. And of course, I had to have all three. I'll also have you know, I have since returned two of those pairs of shoes and can now afford to eat the rest of this week.

The point is, I was out of my house and in a public place that was not a doctor's office (which seems to be the only reason I leave the house these days). This was a pretty big deal.

So when the girlfriend I was with suggested we grab a quick cocktail at the end of our shopping jaunt, I got caught up in the moment and agreed.

Even though The Bean was with me. Even though she would be hungry in mere minutes. Even though it was nearing bedtime.

I was desperate to feel like myself for half an hour. Not Mama. Not Wife. Not Worker X at Company Y. Just me.

We sat down, placed our orders and immediately the judge machine in my head whirred to life. "You know The Bean is about to be hungry and as soon as you have this drink, you won't be able to feed her for two hours. There isn't a bottle of pumped milk at home so you're going to have to use formula. It's her bedtime Right. Now. You're messing with the schedule just as soon as you created it. Why are you doing this, you selfish beast of a woman. Shame. SHAME. SHAME."

And then The Bean started fussing.

So before our drinks came, I went to the restroom to change her diaper. At least I could solve one issue.

The changing table was inside the handicap stall - which is a critical piece of information. You see, once The Bean was on the table and I was bending over her to change her diaper, I noticed something. Something very interesting.

Her head was at boob level.

Oh yes I did.

5 minutes later, The Bean was changed and had enough of a snack to fall asleep while Mama enjoyed her cocktail and good conversation related to nothing about children, work or husbands.

Sometimes you just need to press the sanity reset button. Even when you feel insane doing so.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

I promise to get this post up later today...I'm actually leaving my house this morning. I know! As in interacting with the outside world. This is a pretty big deal for moms who work from home.

In the meanwhile, pray for my shoes.

UPDATED:

This is the story of why I can't have nice things.

A mere month ago, Michael came home with a present for me. Travel slippers/ninja shoes. Tomato/Tomato (turns out that phrase doesn't lend itself to the blog format). And I loved these shoes. I hugged them, I kissed them, I called them George.

They were the perfect house shoe. They kept my feet cozy-warm and, Michael's favorite part, were far more stylish than the orange fuzzball slippers that up until this point were the mainstay of my daily uniform.

And they turned me into a ninja.

So naturally, I never wanted to take them off. Ever.

Going to bed? As a ninja!
Need to feed the dogs? Ninjas are animal lovers.
It's Tuesday and the garbage needs to go out? You've never seen anyone take garbage out so sneakily.

Turns out, taking out the garbage was more precarious than I initially anticipated. You see, ninja shoes and concrete driveways are not lovers.

One trip to the sidewalk and my ninja shoes were showing signs of fatigue. The traction bottom of the slippers were being torn away by the abrasiveness of the concrete.

But because I am lazy indestructible, I continued to wear my ninja shoes outside. Ninjas need to move the sprinklers around the yard, get the mail and pick up dog poop so nasty turd-eating dogs don't gorge themselves to sickness - ninjas draw the line at cleaning up poop-riddled puke. They'd rather set fire to the house and start over.

And pretty soon, there was no traction, grippy stuff at the bottom of the ninja shoes. And guys, do you know what?